Read Online The One Worth Waiting For by Alicia Scott - Free Book Online Page A

understood why she’d walked him to the bus stop until those last moments when the bus had been pulling away and he’d seen her lips form those three silent words in the rain.
    Funny how he’d never forgotten that image. Funny how over the years, in all the wars and battles, in times of crisis, it was always her face that came to mind. Now here he was, standing in her house with its antiques and roses and dolls, and he felt suddenly eighteen again.
    He felt hungry and raw and strange. More than anything in the world, he felt like he wanted to take the doll from her nervous hands, draw her into his arms and kiss her.
    He found himself leaning forward, and at the last moment, her hazel eyes swept up to meet his own. Immediately, she froze, a deer captured by headlights, and her gaze fell instinctively to his bearded lips.
    He leaned closer, catching the faint scent of dried roses and apple shampoo. He watched her lips part, full and pink and trembling with the anticipation. His body was rock hard again, and he only knew that he wanted her.
    His large, callused hands drew the doll from her nerveless grasp and rested it carefully on the ledge of the buffet. Then he cupped his hands around her shoulders, feeling the soft, polished cotton of her beautiful dress and pulled her toward him. She came willingly, her eyes still round and glazed as they fastened upon his face. For a long moment, he didn’t move, but let her feel the heat and hardness of his body pressed against her soft, giving curves. His bare, muscled leg pressed between her own, rubbing her intimately.
    She gasped softly, her cheeks coloring, but she still didn’t pull away. His thumb caressed the softness of her cheek, following the curve to her tender earlobe, finding the throbbing blue pulse in her neck. She shifted restlessly, the movement brushing her suddenly swollen breasts against his furred chest. His gaze darkened, his eyes heavy lidded as they fell once more to her lips.
    “Suzanne,” he whispered huskily, “kiss me.”
    Her hazel eyes opened wider at the command, and for the first time, he saw the war in her eyes.
    “I—I can’t.”
    His thumb brushed across her soft lips, feeling them tremble. “Yes, you can.”
    Her eyes closed, and a deep shudder ran through her body. She could feel the muscled heat of his thigh, the rough caress of his thumb, the crisp arousal of his chest hair. In all her practical, efficient existence, she’d never felt like this. Deborah Kerr had probably known these sensations when Cary Grant had kissed her that first time on the cruise. But then Cary Grant had called it love, and Garret promised no such thing.
    “You’re leaving,” she whispered.
    His thumb rasped again over her lips, so soft, so seductive. “Yes.”
    “It’s not right.”
    His left hand ran down her spine, following the curve to her buttocks. She shivered once more, instinctively arching against his granite body.
    “All you ever have to do is say no.”
    Her eyes opened, and she peered at him through dark, dazed depths. He was seducing her with touch, with words, with feelings. And she was letting him, like the small-town, provincial fool that she was. Hadn’t she learned anything fifteen years ago?
    And why did his body have to feel so good pressed against her own, just as she’d imagined it would last night when images of him tortured her into the early-morning hours?
    Her hands came up of their own volition, flattening themselves against his bare chest. Tentatively, she combed her fingers through the dark matting. It was crisp and silky and nerve-tingling against her fingertips. She pressed her hand flat again, and absorbed the heat of skin, the feel of his pounding heart.
    She closed her eyes and, because she’d dreamed about this man so much, allowed herself one moment of weakness. Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against the base of his throat. Very tentatively, her tongue came out and tasted